


If I Only Could (Make a Deal with God)

by cherishmartell



Series: In His Mother's Arms [1]
Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-31 05:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12675204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherishmartell/pseuds/cherishmartell
Summary: She is looking at Arthur, then, when the sound of hooves beat against the dock she looks up, past him. She is filled with panic, with worry for her husband and her son, her sweet blue eyed boy. She hesitates and it costs her.





	If I Only Could (Make a Deal with God)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Placebo’s cover of “Running Up That Hill”

The air singes her lungs as she hurries after Uther. Igraine yanks her hood over her head, desperately holds it in place to keep her recognizable locks from flying free. Despite the chaos that erupts around her, she can hear her breath, the frightened panting as loud as a war drum. Her hands tremble and she wishes she could catch hold of her husband’s hand, step into the curve of him like she had in quieter days, when she thought he was the only protection she needed. 

They were the imaginings of a lovesick girl, and though she knows him to be an accomplished warrior (she has seen him take on a phalanx of mages and live to tell the tale), but what is a lone swordsman to a mob of disloyal guards? Especially when he carries Arthur, both arms wrapped around their son as he strides forward purposefully, his gait untroubled. Excalibur hangs from his belt and she wishes it were unsheathed and in his hands.

Arthur would be safer, they would be safer if he had left their son in her arms, and taken up Excalibur to ward off the danger that stalks them. Even now, her arms itch for the familiar weight that has grown steadily heavier as her precious boy grows, strong and stubborn, just like his father. But there was no time to argue, so Igraine follows close behind, offering prayers to every saint that flies to memory, begging for the safe passage of her family and a peaceful end to a night that will haunt her, as long as she lives. 

Despite the danger, her eyes fly to her son’s face, as familiar to her as her own. She had been foolish, to hope that he would sleep through this terrified midnight flight. Even in the cruel, orange glow of the fires, she can see that his eyes, as blue as her own, are wide open, and all too aware of the violence that rages around him. Igraine winces, as though struck, her steps faltering. He is too young to see this, too young to witness the evil that lurks in men’s hearts. 

_Look at me_ she wants to say, filled with a wild, desperate need to protect her son, a mother’s instinct sharpened by fear and anger. _It’s only a game, sweetheart. Just look at me; everything will be well_. 

But she can’t risk speaking so she holds her tongue and prays that he will look down, that his hood will fall over his eyes and he will have no memory of this dreadful night. 

Though it seems to take an eternity, they flee the courtyard, slipping into the shadows that line the way down to the docks. It is quieter here, the familiar lapping of waves and the dull creak of wood a comfort after the hell they’ve fled. But the dread remains, the constant threat of discovery. It quickens her limbs as she brushes past Uther, lifting the delicate hem of her nightgown as she descends the worn planks of the dock. Her fingers, slender and delicate and better suited to embroidery, pick at the knots in the rope, frantically working them loose. Igraine thinks she hears her son speak, his small voice no more than a murmur amidst the soft brush of water against the dock and turns towards him. 

She is looking at Arthur, then, when the sound of hooves beat against the dock. Igraine looks up, past him and her eyes widen in horror. She is filled with panic, with worry for her husband and her son, her sweet blue eyed boy. She hesitates and it costs her. 

The pain is immediate; she can’t even cry out a warning to Uther as her lips part in silent surprise and she lurches backwards. Her last thoughts are of Uther, of Arthur who is too young to loose his mother, loose _her_.

She is gone before she hits the water.


End file.
